Sense-ational
by elanev91
Summary: Jily one-shot series - each story focuses on one of the five senses. I'm shite at titles and at descriptions. Also, this happily punny title isn't at all reflective of the (usually) angsty content within.
1. Tactile

**This is kind of a Jily fic, but this is going to grow into a short one-shot series, so I've separated it. I'm going to centre it around the senses (it sounds weird, stay with me).**

 **Disclaimer: Not mine. You know this.**

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 _James was always touchy. Always fidgeting, always moving._

 _His hands were perpetually in his hair, his knees bounced endlessly in every class, his fingers always twitching. He touched his fingertips together over and over to "practice his agility," he twirled quills, tossed ink pots or anything even remotely catchable between his hands._

 _His body hummed with ceaseless energy. You saw it on the quidditch pitch, in his penchant for troublemaking, in his unwavering, intense dedication, determination, and focus. His energy powered him, made him unstoppable._

 _He was all over his friends, too. He ruffled their hair, tucked their heads under his arm and walked down the corridor. He slung his arm over their shoulders or his legs over their laps in class, in the Great Hall, in the corridor, in the common room. His hugs were legendary - he would grab them at random, any time, any where, and_ squeeze _them, sometimes individually or sometimes altogether. He would shout about how much he loved them, rapidly whisper encouraging or comforting words, or say nothing at all. Sometimes the hug was enough._

 _He made his friends feel safe, feel loved. He reminded them that it was okay, no, more than okay, to be affectionate. For Remus and Sirius, raised to think the world created a vast, uncrossable divide between you and everyone else, James' affection was something of a saving grace._

 _He kept his distance from Lily until they became friends. He was always extra twitchy when she was around and the Marauders knew it was killing him. But James wasn't about to violate her. So his hands shook, his knee bounced, his hair was practically torn from the root, but he didn't dare touch her until he knew she'd be okay with it._

 _When he and Lily started dating, it was like the floodgates opened. His fingers danced across her skin, her hand was always clasped in his. His arm was around her shoulders, his hands knotted in her hair, his lips pressed to her neck, cheek, forehead, mouth, shoulder. People were used to James being all over the people he loved, but sometimes they wondered how Lily could stand having James draped over her all the time._

 _He electrified her and she loved it. Lily, too, loved being affectionate, and together she and James were a mess of hands and whispered oaths._

 _When Harry was born, it was like they were, all of them, made anew. They tickled his feet until he screamed with laughter, brushed their fingers across his forehead to move his thick mop of hair (trying to tame Harry's hair was, already, the bane of Lily's existence) out of his eyes. James would toss Harry up into the air, his shrieks of delight echoing around them. Sirius transformed and let Harry ride on his back for hours, Remus cradled Harry in his arms and read Babbitty Rabbitty until neither of them could keep their eyes open._

 _And still, always, there were hugs. James and Lily had passed on their love of hugging and Harry, as soon as he could walk, would come screaming from wherever he was and wrap his little body around you. He would plant kisses on your face and shout "I LOVE YOU UNCLE MOONY! I LOVE YOU UNCLE PADS!" until their poor cat ran into hiding._

 _There was love, so much love, that they were all bursting with it._

Remus stood, now, alone.

It was lightly drizzling, but it could have been pouring and he wouldn't have noticed. The rain had soaked through his coat hours ago, but he couldn't bring himself to move.

They were in there. Those boxes. That hole.

Remus swiped at his face, but he couldn't tell if he was wiping away tears or rain or both. Probably both.

He couldn't quite reconcile his profound emptiness with the intense, ever-increasing sadness that coursed through him. Sadness wasn't even the right word for it. He felt numb and cold, but also like there was a gaping hole in his chest that was making him collapse into nothing, into madness, into something that he couldn't quite describe but was making it impossible to see why he needed to _carry on_.

He was nothing and every horrific thing all at once.

They would hate it if they knew they were in there now. Contained. Separated. He'd thought they could at least be buried together, but he hadn't found the words to propose it. Every ounce of fight had been crushed out of him and now...

James was never still, and now, Remus pulled out his handkerchief, he would never move again. He wouldn't strut around the cottage, twirling his wand between his fingers, wouldn't grab Lily and swirl her around the kitchen until her laughter caught like flames and had them all in hysterics. He wouldn't grin that broad, toothy grin and pull Remus into a crushing hug.

And Harry.

Remus didn't know much about Harry's aunt and uncle, but he knew Lily hated them (well, as much as she hated anyone) and he knew there was no way they could give him what Lily and James had given him.

And Harry wouldn't even remember them. Wouldn't remember any of it. Not the way Lily would dance with him around their house, the way James would grab him in a hug every time he caught the toy snitch. He wouldn't remember the way Remus had held him, the way… Black… Remus shook his head and wiped more tears from his eyes.

Remus took a deep, steadying breath and squared his shoulders. He took his wand out of his pocket, his hands trembling, and moved it in a slow circle. He conjured a wreath, all he could think to do, covered in lilies, and set it at the base of their headstone.

He stood there a moment longer, wrapped his arms around himself, and turned on the spot.

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 **Until next time xx**


	2. Vision

**Hello again! I'm back with another sense (it, and I'm not even joking, woke me up this morning, so I had to write it ASAP if I wanted any peace). This style is a little bit different from what I usually write, but this is how it came to me and I wanted to try it out. Let me know what you think.**

 **Disclaimer: most unfortunately, I cannot claim credit for these beautiful people.**

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When she moved, it was like heaven and earth had been set on fire.

The sun blazed through her bright red hair as she ran, the strands turning to liquid gold and molten lava and exploding the world in his vision until all he saw was her.

He was chasing her down to the beech tree, _their_ beech tree, by the Black Lake. She'd challenged him, said she could beat him there, and took off running before he'd finished shoving the rest of his breakfast in his mouth. And now the air was tearing through his lungs and his muscles were warm and elastic with exertion and he'd forgotten how glorious this could be, especially when you're running towards her.

She wasn't a prize, not something to be won, she was _everything_ , and when she turned and beamed at him after slapping her hands against the bark of their tree, her chest heaving with effort, he slowed only to avoid hurting her when he caught her around the waist and pressed her back into the tree.

That poor tree had seen everything, but James knew that if it could see the way Lily was looking at him right now, that it wouldn't mind what they'd gotten up to underneath it last week. The early morning sun, still cast with reds and oranges, moved like water across her skin and she was molten under its rays. Her cheeks, flush with the run, bloomed, already, with freckles from the newly summer sun and he thought he saw more sprouting across the bridge of her nose, the column of her neck, the ridges of her collarbone as he looked at her.

Her eyes, though, her eyes were what always did him in and this moment was no exception. The dark emeralds of her irises were liquid - they darkened as she trailed her eyes over him, letting them linger and set wildfires on his skin; they sparked and exploded with gold as she laughed, the vibrancy of the sound working its way into her eyes and it was impossible not to look at her when every inch of her sang with joy; when she was angry, they burned hot and bright and fast, her temper flaring up and burning out nearly instantaneously, but not without great dramatic effect in the interim; when she said she loved him, words he still couldn't believe she directed at him, they burned a slow, barely controlled burn, the heat and desire and hopes and dreams and everything she wanted for them dancing on the edges of her irises, threatening to escape and overrun them both at any moment and James knew that he wouldn't mind, not one bit, to fall into that fire with her.

And now, now she was looking at him with a look so overwhelming that James was surprised to realise that the entire universe hadn't come crumbling down around their feet and left only the two of them. Her eyes were like Bonfire Night, the gold and green exploding in her eyes and burning into his memory, his heart, his skin, his soul, into every single part of him and as she moved her eyes over him, the laughter, the gasping breath draining from both of them, her eyes caught fire and James felt like they'd lit fuses on all his nerve endings and exploded him into action.

He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to hers and even though he couldn't see her, feeling her, tasting her was almost like seeing her because he knew her so well now that he could trace the outlines of her with the tip of his tongue and the pads of his fingers. He weaved his fingers into her hair and saw her running towards the lake, her hair tangling in the wind as she picked up speed so he wouldn't overtake her. He traced his tongue along her bottom lip and saw her drinking four cups of tea with breakfast that morning, her hands trembling as she set the Prophet down on the table, chugged the last gulp of tea, and stood, pressing a kiss to the side of his neck before whispering that he couldn't beat her to their tree. Her hands, firm and purposeful now, pressed into his hips and pulled him against her, and he saw her hands in all their machinations and his blood raced with potential.

As she molded him against her he was struck by how new it all felt, how no amount of experience, no depth of knowledge would make his skin cool, his thoughts more coherent, his blood run slower when she was here, when he was with her like this and he wondered if it would always be that way, if she would always be able to bring him to his knees, to the brink, to something bigger and more fantastic than his own apparently mediocre life. He'd traced every inch of her skin, knew it like his own, but every time still felt like the first time and he never felt like he knew her well enough. He supposed the practice of years would carve well-worn paths into both their bodies, but he also knew that she was an expert at keeping him on his toes and that he would always, always want more of her.

He pulled away, his breath crashing into his lungs like a tidal wave and clearing his mind of everything but her, right now, this moment. Her eyes flickered open and she grinned, his heart faltering in his chest for just an instant before taking off again at breakneck speed. "I told you I could beat you," she said, her breath was coming in smaller and smaller waves but her eyes were still alight with want, desire, mischief (a look he was sure he was wearing in his own eyes) and she didn't push him away, didn't move her hands from underneath the back of his shirt. Instead she traced her fingertips over his back, outlining the broad muscles he earned after years of quidditch and a gangly, awkward pubescence. He pressed his hips against hers and she cocked an eyebrow at him, her eyes shining with amusement, "Half? That's all I get? I really need to step up my game."

They laughed, his chest vibrating against hers as she moved her hands between them and began tracing the planes of his stomach. "I think we've given this poor tree enough of a show, don't you?" he asked, smirking at her. She sighed, "I suppose," and dipped her fingers into the waistband of his trousers and spun them, so he was pressed against the tree. She pulled her hands from his skin and laid them on his chest, her fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt as she pulled his mouth down to hers, briefly, just long enough to make him weak in the knees again, like the ground was crumbling beneath his feet.

She pulled back and he caught her around the waist, pressed his forehead to hers, let his eyes scorch the earth of her skin. "I love you, Evans," he reached up and brushed his thumb across the apple of her cheek, moving his fingers down her neck and tangling them in her hair, "I love you so bloody much and I don't know how to tell you except to say that I do." Lily flushed, the light rose of her cheeks warming him, spurring him on, "You make me that happiest, the very, very happiest in the entire world. And one day," James' eyes searched hers, the slowly burning emerald fire lighting him ablaze, "I'm going to ask you to marry me."

She flushed a deeper red, "James," she said, her voice, and the hands against his chest trembling, "we're barely eighteen."

He brought both hands to her face, his thumbs brushing against her cheeks and the tips of his fingers tangling in her hair, "I don't care. I love you, Lily. I love you and if you'll have me, if you'll let me pester you for the rest of our lives," she laughed then and James grinned and pressed a swift kiss to her lips, "I'm going to ask you. Not now, not while we're here at school, but I'm going to ask you. I just wanted you to know that."

She studied him for a moment, her gaze, as always, unsettling him, stopping his heart, lifting him up, making him soar with happiness, and then she grinned. "Well, I guess I could wait a little while longer… but," she cocked her eyebrow at him and her grin became a mischievous smirk, "don't make me wait too long."

James smiled so broadly he thought his face might crack in half and whispered, "Not a chance," and caught her lips with his. And this moment, like so many others, burned itself into his memory, the vision of her, eyes blazing into his, his fingers tangled in her hair, her cheeks alight with freckles and flushed with love, and James knew he would never, ever see anything more glorious.

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 **Until next time xx**


	3. Sound

**Hello everyone! It's New Years (whatever, who cares, time is an illusion) so happy 2017 to all of you! Hopefully 2017 manages to get it THE FUCK TOGETHER because 2016 was an actual bloody shit show.**

 **Sound is a bit shorter than the first two pieces I've posted here and I did, in the interest of complete openness, have some more that I was thinking about adding to the end here but I really ended up liking (not the right word, you'll see) where this left off, so here we are.**

 **Disclaimer: I know, you know, we all know. Moving on.**

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She heard the rush of a spell, the quiet gathering of speed that built and built and built until it exploded into a burst of sound, and then she heard the dull _thud_ of his body hitting the floor.

It happened all at once, in one mass, one solid _thump_ , a marionette with freshly cut strings.

It wasn't nearly enough sound, not enough for what it meant, for her, for Harry, for all of them. It wasn't enough, it sounded like _nothing_ , like you would have missed it if you weren't listening for it, and James Potter was never one to be missed.

James was a living soundwave, a body in constant motion with its own musical accompaniment. He tapped quills, fingertips, stacks of parchment against their desks at Hogwarts, screamed himself hoarse during every quidditch practice, sang at the top of his voice whenever Dumbledore asked them to sing the school song, shouted love for Sirius, Remus, Lily, Harry from the bloody rooftops. James vibrated endlessly with sound and this, this _thump_ \- it didn't do him justice.

In that _thump_ , Lily heard everything missing, everything the _thump_ left out.

She heard the way he cried when Harry was born, how he held him and whispered words of love into Harry's ears, and how they cried, later, together, trembling with sobs because _what kind of world have they brought their son into what in the bloody hell were they thinking?_

She heard his laugh, his bright, uproarious laugh - it echoed from every part of James' life, coloured every memory she had of him. She heard it bouncing off the walls in the corridors at Hogwarts, in the middle of class (usually followed swiftly by a detention), echoing down the stairs from the boys dormitory, in the Great Hall, on the quidditch pitch. James' entire life was built around laughter and his laugh was infectious. Once Lily began to hear it, and realised that its tenor had shifted, she found that she, too, was laughing alongside him. You couldn't do anything but, really.

She heard every declaration of love he'd ever directed at her, from the shouted chat up lines in third to the oaths he breathed into her skin in seventh. But even in silence, Lily heard James shouting his love for her. It was the way he stayed up all night until she got back from an Order mission, made her favourite biscuits from scratch, folded and put away their laundry because he knew she hated laundry more than anything else, how he'd held her, made her feel like she was real again after _everything_.

James' love rang strong and clear and constant, and Lily knew she'd been hearing it everywhere, for all of them, for as long as she could remember. It was in the mysterious blankets she found wrapped around her after an unplanned night on the common room couch, the look she'd see in his eyes when she caught him staring _just_ before he slapped on that mischievous smirk, in the way he would wrap his arms around his friends and pull them in whenever he thought they needed it. It was his unwavering commitment to them even after _sixth year_ , it was his drive and love and annoyingly incessant pushing that made them whole again. It was the way he held her for hours, literally hours, after Marlene, her parents, _that fight_ with her sister, when he told her that _Voldemort be damned we're having this wedding because I can't wait to be your husband_. It was in his love his support for Remus, especially when Remus didn't believe he deserved those things himself. It was when he brought Sirius back from the brink, took him in, reminded him that they were _brothers_ and never let him forget it.

He'd been arrogant and big headed and obnoxious and unnecessarily cruel in those early years and Lily was still sometimes surprised to look up and realise that this _, this_ was the boy he'd been. That even then, even when she hated him, this person, this man she now knew so well, could not live without, had been somewhere underneath.

And this _thump_ , Lily thought it ruefully, angrily, her thoughts passing over her consciousness in panicked waves as she pushed furniture around Harry's room, it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough for James, not for the boy who loved his friends to the point of recklessness or the man who loved her every single day, who stood by her side and fought with her, for her, who was the most terrific father in the entire world, who made their son feel loved and safe and happy every single day of his little life. It wasn't enough for the man whose last concern was his family, whose last words urged her out, away, to get to safety with no regard, at all, for his own impending doom.

It was not enough, but it would never be enough, so she kept moving furniture.

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 **Until next time xx**


	4. Scent

**Hello all - I've been away for a while, but you know. Life. Though, mostly it's this whole "America is falling down around our ears" thing.**

 **Anyway, enjoy.**

 **Disclaimer: I know, you know, moving on.**

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He smelled like… she couldn't quite put her finger on it.

Her face was buried in the crook of his neck, his fingers tracing tantalising patterns over her skin, his heartbeat thrumming through him and she could feel it on her lips, pressed, as they were, against his throat. The air around them crackled with electricity, with promise, with potential but all she could think about was how… beautiful he smelled. Beautiful wasn't the right word, wasn't big enough, deep enough, but it was hard to find any word that described the way he was making her feel, so it would have to do.

It was one of the first things she realised she loved about him, craved about him. His smell. It had begun with a gently placed blanket in fifth year, one she hadn't even know was his until years later. She should have guessed, the rich red blanket with golden quaffles stitched around the edges should have given it away, but it was well-worn and soft in all the best places and smelled like love and comfort and _home,_ and she'd still hated him then, so she never would have guessed something so wonderful belonged to him.

She'd ended up sleeping on the common room couch, her dorm mates having kicked her out after she'd had her third O.W.L.S.-related breakdown/all-night revision of the week. She had intended to bring a blanket, but her arms were too full of books to carry anything else and, quite honestly, she'd assumed she wouldn't be sleeping anyway. She'd woken the next morning, the sun pouring through the windows opposite the couch, her hair a complete mess of tangles, with the blanket draped over her. She didn't know where it had come from, who had put it on her, but it had smelled so intensely good that she pulled it over her head to block out the sun and fell back asleep, breathing in the scent.

When she'd finally unearthed herself from underneath it, hours later when the feet thundering down the dormitory stairs became too much, she folded the blanket neatly and wrote a brief note, thanking her mysterious stranger for the best blanket she'd ever used in her life. _Thank you, whoever you are, for this amazing blanket. You're quite lucky I didn't steal it ;) Love, Lily_

She found the note in a box of James' things when they were moving into the cottage. She couldn't believe he'd kept it. Though knowing James as well as she did now, she wasn't all too surprised.

She hadn't stolen the blanket, but when they had started dating, Lily no longer felt obligated to respect silly things like 'ownership' and 'belonging' - she stole his quidditch jumpers, t shirts, tracksuit bottoms, his button-up shirts and school jumpers. Anything that had, at one point, been on James' body found its way onto hers.

She loved being surrounded by his scent, feeling like he was there, his skin against hers, even when they were sitting in an excruciatingly boring lesson and James was sitting on the other side of the room because after _that incident in February_ he wasn't allowed to sit anywhere near her in any of their classes anymore. It was probably for the best, she did actually want to pass her N.E.W.T.S., but instead of listening to the professor talk about whatever they were talking about, Lily pulled her arm up inside the sleeve of one of the jumpers she'd stolen from James' chest of drawers and pressed the cuff to her nose.

She used to catch his eye from across the room whenever she did this and wink at him before turning her eyes back to her notes and scribbling dutifully for the rest of class. Nothing riled him up more than knowing that she was thinking of him but intentionally ignoring him, and moves like that always ended up with James pulling her into the nearest broom cupboard, secret passage, abandoned classroom, and letting her know _just what he thought about her saucy wink back there._

When they began their all-night missions for the Order, those jumpers were her saving grace. He had to be okay, he couldn't _not_ be okay, but she knew that she couldn't do anything about it if he wasn't and this line of thinking usually sent her into some kind of spiral that usually ended with her curled in bed in James' old quidditch jumper with her face pressed into James' pillow, trying desperately to fall asleep, to reassure herself that he was, definitely, without a doubt, okay. His warm, woodsy, vaguely spicy smell brought her down from even the height of her panic, settled her into sleep, and always announced his return in the morning.

James, finding her there, wrapped around his pillow, would fall gently into bed next to her and wrap his arms around her, pressing his nose into her hair and letting hers meet the skin of his neck - he always smelled vaguely of smoke when he came home and she knew it was because he and Sirius were probably smoking those bloody things again, but she couldn't exactly blame them, they needed something to take the edge off and, having smoked them a few times herself, Lily could attest to their healing powers. Or, at least, their suppressing powers - they never actually _healed_ anything.

This change, though, was the only thing that had ever changed about the way that James smelled. It came off easily enough in the shower and she had him back, the warm, comforting smell that filled their house and made Lily feel at home more than anything else. She'd grown more and more attached to it, she realised, since they'd gotten married, since Harry was born, since they'd been locked up in their house for months on end with no plans to leave in sight. So much about James had changed - he was still his mischievous, bold, loving self, but being trapped inside the four walls of their cottage was wearing on him. What was once a light, jaunty step became heavier, grounded, his eyes were constantly shadowed by a lack of sleep, his fidgety, nervous energy characterised everything he did because he no longer had an outlet.

Worst of all, she could never quite forget the sound of James screaming, terrified, in the middle of the night and waking from what was already a fitful sleep, couldn't forget the way his body had quaked in her arms as she held him, the way his tears had soaked her skin. _They had you and Harry, Lils. They had you both and I couldn't do anything about it and fuck, Lily, this war is going to kill me._

She loved him, more than she ever had, more than she'd even realised it was physically possible to love someone; it broke her heart watching the war dig its claws into him and tear him apart.

And that morning, as he traced lines across her hips, her ribs, her shoulders, she pressed her nose into his neck and breathed deeply, telling herself, as she used to do when he was gone, that everything would be alright. That they would be alright.

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 **One more left.**

 **Until next time xx**


	5. Taste

**I needed Jily today. In bringing this collection to a close, I decided to take it back to the start.**

 **Enjoy.**

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The first time she kissed him, he tasted like butterbeer and something distinctly _James._ The combination made her head swim, her heart pound, and her body crave him, his mouth, his body, his skin against hers.

It was a crisp October afternoon, the first Hogsmeade weekend of their seventh year, and Lily had finally said yes, enthusiastically yes, to James' Hogsmeade proposal. He'd been stunned at first, thought she was having him on, made worse by the fact that instead of answering his desperate enquiry of "Are you serious?!" she'd said, "No, but your brother is," winked at the tall, wavy haired man next to him, and walked off. She never could resist a Sirius joke. Neither, she knew, could Sirius, and his barking laughter followed her down the corridor. James, unwilling to leave things on such unsure footing, chased her down the corridor and took her hand. "You're actually saying yes?" He'd said, the words quiet and deep and fast, his eyes searching her face and when Lily broke into a smile he looked like he'd been stunned. "Yes, James. I'm actually saying yes."

He'd dragged her down to Hogsmeade as soon as they'd finished breakfast that morning, though 'finished' is perhaps not quite the right word. James had practically inhaled an entire bowl of porridge, his knee bouncing incessantly under the table, and Lily had barely had time to grab a few pieces of toast before his hand was in hers and he was hauling her away from the table.

She was shouting indignantly and shoving bites of toast into her mouth as he pulled her into the brisk morning air, but his hand was warm in hers and the electricity shooting through her veins kept her from protesting too fiercely against the disruption of her breakfast. Instead, she gripped his hand more firmly in her own, bumped her hip against his playfully - "You better feed me today, Potter, or you're dead." His eyes were sparkling with amusement when he smiled back at her, "On my honour, Evans."

When they got to the gates, James had stopped them, moving to stand in front of her, his eyes moving over her face, and Lily's breath caught in her throat as she looked at him because he was just too damn beautiful to be real and how had she never realised it before? She wanted to grab him right there and kiss him, but they hadn't even had their date yet and she knew how long he'd been waiting for this, so she ran her tongue along the back of her teeth and bit the corner of her lip in an attempt to control herself. But he was still looking at her like that, like she was everything, the only thing in the world, and the air was crackling with so much electricity that she could taste it on her tongue when she pulled in a deep breath. He blinked and smiled an embarrassed smile before reaching up and taking his scarf from around his neck. "Here," he said, grinning at her, "You look cold."

His fingers burned trails across her skin as he tied the scarf securely around her, and she swallowed the desperate reply that was bubbling up in her, opting to thank him quietly instead. It was the exact opposite of everything she normally would have done and she knew James had noticed because he'd cocked an amused eyebrow at her as they began walking again, but she couldn't trust her mouth because it was begging her to either taste every centimetre of his skin or tell him how she thought she might actually, desperately, be falling in love with him and neither of those were options while they were making their way to the high street on their first official date.

The morning was a whirlwind of sound and colour - they went into all her favourite shops, he detailed everything he'd ever planned for all those rejected dates, her cheeks flushed with a bit more than the cold when she told him that she was glad he'd finally earned her attention. She tried to remember all the details, commit it all to memory, because she knew this was something she'd want to remember, that it was one of those rare moments you realise, as it's happening, that you need to set it down, to carve it into your memory, because this moment, this day is going to be one that changes the rest of your life. But no matter how hard she tried to step back, to catalogue the details, she couldn't. He was overwhelming, he was, and she couldn't focus on anything but the rush in her stomach that was slowly burning a hole through her when she looked at him.

They ducked into The Three Broomsticks for lunch, he cracked jokes and she tossed chips at his head. They drank bottles of butterbeer and she pretended not to notice the stunned look on his face when she brushed her foot against his calf under the table. His eyes welled up when he talked about his parents, she took his hand and talked about her sister, they talked about the future. It was easy to talk to him and they talked about everything.

They fought, of course, over who would pay the bill when it came and, though James won, she grumbled about it while they waited for Rosmerta to return with his change. James pocketed a handful of coins as he stood, laughing as Lily said, "I can pay for _myself_ , James, bloody hell," and took her hand. They walked out of the pub and the cold air was a shock after the warm, smoky air of the pub. "You can pay next time," James said, grinning down at her and Lily cocked her eyebrow, "Who said there's going to be a next time?"

He stopped in the middle of the high street, turning to face her and raising his eyebrows - he studied her before he smirked and moved his hands to her hips. "Now Evans," he said, his fingers brushing along the hem of her jumper, "I know you don't mean that."

The retort was on the tip of her tongue, but, recognising the opportunity, she grinned instead. "No, I don't," and she reached up, wound her fingers in the hair at the base of his neck, and pulled his mouth to hers.

She would, over time, run her tongue along all the lines of his skin, tracing him, finding every sensitive part of his body and memorising it and the way it felt against her lips, the way the salt and spice of his skin lingered on her tongue. But now, right now, with his mouth on hers, his fingers sliding along the exposed skin at her waist, all she could think was _more_. She needed him, every part of him, and she knew then that she would never, ever get enough.

She didn't care that people were probably gawking at them, that they could see just how desperately she was pressing her body against his. The taste of him was driving her mad and she shouldn't be held responsible for any acts of public indecency she might be in the process of committing. She bit down lightly on his bottom lip, smiling at the groan that escaped him, before he broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to hers. His eyes were shining with want and mischief and she could tell just how much effort it was taking for him to control himself. It mirrored, but probably didn't quite match, the restraint she was exercising over herself.

"You can't be doing that to me in public, Evans. We're supposed to be setting an example. What kind of Heads are we?" Lily grinned and pressed her hips against his, "Maybe we should go back up to the castle then, if you're going to be such a stickler for the rules."

He smiled so broadly she thought his face might crack with the effort and she couldn't help the laugh that bubbled out of her when he was looking at her like that, grinning stupidly at her in the middle of the high street like he'd just won the bloody lottery. She knew how he felt though, her lips were still tingling, her skin still humming, and she completely understood, now, what it felt like to have your entire body come alive, burst into flame, when you're with someone. She craved it, never wanted it to end - James had ignited a fire in her gut that she hoped, no, knew, would never burn out.

She stepped away from him, grabbed his hand firmly in her own, and turned towards the castle.

* * *

 **Thank you xx**


End file.
